


Spiral

by Gleennui



Series: The Hollow [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gleennui/pseuds/Gleennui
Summary: The subconscious doesn't need to create what's already there.





	Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> This series will be told in multi-chaptered stories of mostly short vignettes. Ratings will not change mid-story, but characters and tags may be added each chapter.

It’s around April when the dreams start. 

At first it’s just swirls--grey-black like cartoon smoke--that make him wake up trying to gulp lungfuls of air. But then the swirls coalesce into winding funnels that suck him down deeper and deeper, their wispy walls offering no purchase for him to fight the pull until he surrenders to it, the give enticing in a seductively thrilling way that socks him in the gut. It’s those dreams that he yanks _himself_ from, pressing his palm to the cool painted cinderblock wall of the dorm and ignoring the torturous place inside him trying to crook a finger. 

Next comes the screaming. 

It’s not coming from him but he can feel it tickling in his chest and throat--a yearning buzz like he wants to open his mouth and let it free. He can hear it, though, more of a wail than anything, and it’s both everywhere and nowhere he can pinpoint. He still looks for it, though--feeling himself stumble in all directions, his hands groping at nothing and then clawing at his own skin. Nothing wakes him from those, no matter how hard he throws his arms to the side, but that’s fine. The sound and feeling are terrifying and addictive and he lets himself be swallowed by them, drawing himself into a punishment he’s convinced he deserves. 

When he’s awake, real life feels like a false dream-state, fuzzy like the edges of a heady hit off a pipe. His chest is empty and cold and he stumbles over heavy feet too close to the ground. There’s no terror but there’s no thrill, and every inhale feels stale and bitter. He spits on the sidewalk and the smokers nod with impassive knowing. 

He doesn’t correct them.


End file.
